His garb it was of fourfold hue,
And wondrous fair to see;
He tarried not by the beggar-crew,
Straight to the hall pass'd he.

Into the hall walk'd little Roland,
As 'twere his own abode :

On a golden dish he laid his hand,

And silent forth he strode.

"What may this mean?" our good king thought;

"It passes, by my fay!"

But since the deed he question'd not,

None else said Roland nay.

There did but

pass a little space,

Ere back came Roland bold;

He sped to the king with hasty pace,

And seized his cup of gold.

"Now out and hold, thou urchin bold!"
Our good king loud did cry;
Young Roland still retain'd his hold,

And dared him with his eye.

The king frown'd awhile, but soon must he smile, And mirthsome wax'd his mood:

"Thou tread'st as bold in our hall of gold

As in thy good green wood.

"Thou bearest a dish from a royal board

Like an apple from the tree;

Thou fetchest, as though from the streamlet's flow, My wine so red to see.”

"The peasant girl drinks of the running stream, The apple she breaks from the tree;

But venison and lamprey my mother beseem,
And thy wine so red to see."

"Now an thy mother so noble be,
As thou dost boast, fair boy,
I ween a gallant train has she,
And a bower for state and joy.

"And who may be sewer to carve at her board, And who may bear her cup ?"

"My right hand is sewer to carve at her board, My left hand bears her cup."

"And pr'ythee, who may her warders be?"

"My little eyen so blue;"

"And who may be her minstrel free?" "My mouth of the rosy hue."

"A goodly train hath thy fair ladye,
But her livery is strange, I trow;
With colours many, and bright to see,
Like the tints of the watery bow."

"In every quarter of the town,'

Eight boys this arm o'erthrew,

And they brought to me, for liegeman's fee,
This coat of the fourfold hue."

"A gallant page hath thy dame I ween,

A better there could not be:

I trow she is some beggar-quec1,
And open hall keeps she.

Gramercy, 'twere shame so noble a dame
Far from our court should be;

So rise, three ladies! rise, three knights!
Lead in the dame to me."

Forth from the hall went little Roland,

And bore the golden prize.

At the royal word, three knights from the board,
And three bright ladies rise.

The king he tarried a little space,
Then down the hall gazed he,
And he saw return with speedy pace
His knights and his ladies three.

He fix'd his eye, and loud 'gan cry,
"Help, heaven, and saints of grace!
In my open court have I made a sport
Of my own imperial race!

Help, heaven! My sister Bertha, pale,
In weeds of a pilgrim gray!

Help, heaven! in this our royal hall,
In beggar's vile array."

Dame Bertha at his footstool fell,

That ladye meek and mild;

Still seem'd that feud his heart to swell,

He stared on her so wild.

Dame Bertha that look could scarcely brook,
No word to speak had she;

Young Roland raised his eyes and gazed,

And hail'd his uncle free.

Then spake the king in gentlest tone,
"Rise up, thou sister mine!
For this thy dear and gallant son,
Forgiveness shall be thine."

Dame Bertha rose, o'ercome with joy:
Thanks, brother!" did she say;
"And this my good and loyal boy
Thy kindness shall repay.

Shall, like his king, uprear his helm
In many a conquering field;
Shall bear the colours of many a realm
In pennon, and on shield.

"Shall tear from many a royal board
The gold, with a conqueror's hand;
Shall raise, to power and wealth restored
His drooping mother land!"

FROM GERMAN BALLADS."

N.B. Madame Bertha, sister of the Emperor Charlemagne, having, contrary to the wish of her royal brother, married the Chevalier Milon, was obliged to quit the palace of her ancestors, and follow her husband. Misfortune overtook the unhappy pair. In fording a river the current carried Milon away, and he was drowned; and Bertha was left alone with her sorrows, and her little son Roland. Exiled and homeless, she took up her abode at last in a grotto, formed in a large rock, near Aix-la-Chapelle.

The Marriage Bells.

WHEN folks with headstrong passion blind,
To play the fool make up their mind,
They're sure to come with phrases nice,
And modest air, for your advice;
But, as a truth unfailing make it,
They ask, but never mean to take it.
'Tis not advice they want, in fact,
But confirmation in their act:
Now mark what did in such a case
A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free,
Than Fredegonde you scarce would see;
So smart her dress, so trim her shape,
Ne'er hostess offering juice of grape
Could for her trade wish better sign;
Her looks gave flavour to the wine;
And each guest feels it, as he sips,
Smack of the ruby of her lips:
A smile for all, a welcome glad,
A jovial, coaxing way she had,

And,-what was more her fate than blame,
A nine months' widow was our dame.
But toil was hard, for trade was good,
And gallants sometimes will be rude,
"And what can a lone woman do?
The nights are long, and eerie too,
Now, Guillot,-there's a likely man,
None better draws, or taps a can;